A chronicle of Maria and V-Tron's nightly adventures, at least the ones we can remember > 50% of. Be warned: by the end of the night you won't know what all transpired, but your friends will have lost all respect for you, you will be missing something important that you need for work tomorrow (like your briefcase or car keys), and that girl's phone number? Actually the local taxidermy.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

I'm ashamed to admit it ladies, but last night I had a terrible case of the beer goggles.

This morning I woke up hung-over, cotton-mouthed, and still half-stoned. I was about to reach for the hair of the dog that bit me when I turn over and see the hairiest, pudgiest, smelliest male specimen I have ever seen in my life (and I've seen a whole lot of them). I rushed to the bathroom to try to bleach myself clean and hack up the hairballs. After taking a hot shower and gargling mouthwash for half an hour my memory finally returned. He definitely did not look like that last night!

This is how it went down:

Me and Vulvatron went out to some bars as we are accostumed to every Monday. We were doing the usual, buying some Jaegerbombs for dumb fratboys, dancing all seductively, you know working the club. I had past my limit when I downed my 5th martini, but Vulvatron kept egging me on so I went with it. Then some thick necked jocks tried to engage me in a chugging contest-I kicked their sorry asses of course, only after stealing a kiss from the hottest one. So here I am, drunk, but not quite incoherent, my game wasn't suffering, and horny. Vulvatron, who I wholeheartedly blame for the outcome of the night, points out this guy across the bar. She grabs my hand and walks over to him, then abandons me when he starts talking to us. I of course, will take anything I can get at this point and proceed to completely ignore any POA in the bar, except for this guy, whom I'll call Hamster because of his excessive blond body hair and beady eyes. So, we end up at my place, have awkward sex, and here I am trying to scrub blond bushy hairs out of my teeth. On a side not I should mention I did NOT follow my own weeny peeny rules. I urge you ladies, don't be like me, follow them!

Moral of the story: Don't hang out with Vulvatron, AND get a second opinion before you bring home that small awkward hairy man, nursing an MGD 64 in the corner.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Any of yous ever agree to meet up with a man friend that, while you may have chatted online with / texted / emailed, twittered, whatever; you haven't seen, in person, for a few months? I know all you's got that NPOA* you keep around, waiting in the wings, an insurance policy against breakups, boredom, or the boyfriend being out of town for a few days, but ladies, just like it's important to change your oil and keep fresh batteries in the smoke detector, it's important to periodically check and make sure your back-up plan hasn't manimorphed.

I cannot stress this enough. It takes a woman years to "let herself go". Ladies, men have the ability to go from fab to fug in a matter of days. I work in a lab so believe me, I know.

Let's talk about this one guy I know. Let's call him Vince, because that's his name. Vince is an old friend, and before Maria says anything, I HAVE NEVER SLEPT WITH / DONE ANYTHING WITH VINCE. Never happened, never gonna happen, BECAUSE HE'S A MANIMORPH.

Vince is a solid 7 or 8, when he takes care of himself. He's tall, he's got a nice face, he has good hair, a nice body, and he dresses well without throwing off the gay vibe. My mother always asks why I don't just marry that nice Vince fellow. Then suddenly, for no apparent reason, he stops working out, starts eating bagel bites and big macs for dinner, and grows a neckbeard and an enormous unibrow. This man can go from a 7 or 8 to a pity 2. And then, after a couple of months like that, he's back to his usual self. This cycle repeats 2x or 3x per year. It's truly bizzare.

Vince is extreme, but any NPOA can be transformed into an unrecognizable schlub by a bad haircut or an ill-advised moustache. Even if he looks okay when you guys hook up, it pays to make sure he's not prone to this kind of bullshit. You don't want one of your girlfriends to run into your fugified POA and ride you on it.

Vulvatron out!*"Piece of Ass" or "Nice Piece of Ass", shortened because I like acronyms.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

I can't speak for all the ladies in the land, but Maria and I live in The South, where a man is as likely to be wearing a baseball hat as he is likely to have a nose. Even when he's going out! Take off your hats you stupid fucks!Fact: Having great hair will get you laid, regardless of what gender you are and what gender you are trying to pick up.Fact: I can't see what your goddamn hair looks like if you're wearing a hat. Would you fuck a girl in a beekeeper outfit? Christ.Fact: When you take your hat off after you've been wearing it and sweating in it half the night, even Brad Pitt ends up looking like Brad Pitt's Retarded Cousin. Leave it on or leave it at home, Jimbob.Fact: Yankees or Nicks? Who gives a shit about baseball players and their shrunken beytsim. Do you play for Team Straight, that's what I want to know.Fact: I didn't know that "rounding the bases" was also a sports term until I was twenty-five.Hats off, motherfuckers!Vulvatron Out!

Monday, September 7, 2009

Alright ladies, you know you have encountered this before. Picture this scenario:
You pick up a fine man at the bar, the grocery store, the library, or the self-help section of the used book store (that's my favorite pick-up spot, they're always so vunerable), and you get said man to come back to your place. You both drink some wine to loosen up a bit, put on some jams from the Matrix soundtrack to set the mood, light some candles, and slowly begin to undress. You get his shirt off and it's just as you expected, nice abs and a firm chest, maybe a tattoo if you're into that kind of thing. But then you remove the pants and you gasp. Is that it? Is he not, you know, hard yet? You look up and realize yes, this is all there is. You suddenly become saddened and a little irritated. He has a weeny-peeny.

Now, normally you would go through with it because what the hell, sex is sex. But no. You deserve better. If your two fingers are more powerful then his tiny pecker then by all means ditch that small man and go home. Remember Woody Allen says that masturbating is making love to your best friend.

But how do you leave tactfully and with dignity? You don't want to offend the poor guy, you just don't wish to pursue your encounter any farther. Here's what to do if such situation arises.

You don't want to make him feel bad since men have such delicate self-esteem, especially about their dicks. You never know if you'll run into this guy again. Maybe one day he'll be interviewing you, taking your fingerprints, giving you a traffic ticket, or even giving you an audit. In other words don't burn bridges.
Here are some other options:

1. Look at your watch, check your cell phone, or look as if the lightbulb above your head just went off. Look embaressed and tell him that something suddenly came up.

2. Fake a bout of insanity and run out of the apartment/house/shack/whatever screaming and raving.

3. Answer your phone (it was on silent) and explain that your husband was just released from prison.

4. Tell him you think it would be grand if his golden retreiver joined in.

5. Tell him your best friend is sending you ESP messages and she's in trouble. Must leave now to save her.

6. Start talking like Tarzan. Me want cock.

7. Better yet, picture yourself as a sexy yoda. Cock to me belongs.

8. Tell him your water just broke. Dammit, you didn't even know you were pregnant!

9. Tell him your cats are gonna love him.

10. Better yet, your kids are gonna REALLY love him.

11. Even better, tell him that you are saving yourself for marriage. Good thing you're all the sudden madly in love with him. Let's go to the chapel, baby. We'll save this for the honeymoon.

This is your horrified expression disguised as lust. Just make sure you get out of there, and quickly.

This blog is a feminine response to Tucker Max's "I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell," and other articles of the "fratire" genre. It is not a tribute, a homage, or a fan site. Fuck no. It's a parady, a satire. Inspired by an awesome episode of Sliders where male and female roles were reversed we wondered what "bro humor" would taste like for men if it were "feminized". What if men were objectified for the sake of humor? This site is in no way anti-male. We are merely trying to show how ridiculous objectifying and degrading the opposite sex really is. If you get offended, great, that is what we wanted.